This guitar instrumental began with the artwork — not of a real desert, but one that could never exist. Saturn, a gas giant, has no solid surface… and certainly no sand. And yet, in the art piece I created alongside this instrumental, a soft mirage of dunes stretches under a Saturn-like sky — adrift to one like even our own, that shimmer with illusion.
That’s the idea behind this song.
We often rely on what feels familiar — dunes, hills, the illusion of ground. But Saturn reminds us that not all that appears solid truly is. The universe, like life, is full of shapes and symbols we think we understand… until we look closer.
This track is about that illusion. About how even emptiness can appear inviting, how we sometimes chase the familiar instead of facing what’s real. Because like Saturn’s “airsand,” what looks grounded from afar may vanish when you try to stand on it.
The latest lyrical song I’ve released is titled “Haps of Icebergs, Mis” — an enigmatic track that alludes to the haunting complexity of Europe’s tangled past. In this piece, I wanted to explore, both subtly and starkly, the origins of disorder and empire: from the seemingly chaotic tribes of early Europe to the legacy of dynasties that shaped the modern world.
When I first studied European history, I was fascinated by the Hapsburgs and the Holy Roman Empire. There was a mystique to it — something almost ghostlike. The HRE was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire in the traditional sense, and yet it held influence for centuries. Today, the name Hapsburg rings quietly, with very little trace left in modern mainstream discourse. And yet… how could they not have been central to the narratives that spiraled into World War I and II?
The lyrics in this song start with an almost chant-like repetition:
the manic tribes of jerrs and vibes of hay *(e) —–
There’s something purposefully obscure in these lines. “Jerrs” and “vibes” reference not only sonic cues, but cultural reverberations — the manic undercurrent of Europe’s tribal past, particularly the Germanic tribes that, long before forming nation-states, roamed with warlike cadence. Those very tribes, from the Goths to the Vandals, were painted in historical texts as destroyers, often unfairly reduced to caricatures of chaos and destruction. And yet, were they not the foundations of the continent?
oras of haze hours of the daze
This portion bridges to something more psychological, more metaphysical. The “hay” becomes “haze”, and with that subtle vowel shift, we move from a scene of rustic simplicity to one of mental fog — “hours of daze”, or perhaps, days of daze. That confusion, that dazed haze of history, is what this song sits within.
veux to veux of lieu to lieu to stay
French listeners may recognize “veux” (want) and “lieu” (place), hinting at movement, longing, belonging — even a fragmented identity. I myself am predominantly British, though my bloodline traces back to Normandy, France around 800 AD, and still, there’s significant German descent woven in. In this way, the song becomes not just about nations and histories, but personal inheritance: where do we belong in the lines drawn by centuries before us?
The song repeats again:
the manic tribes of jerrs and vibes of hay *(e) —–
And it’s worth noting — some lines were intentionally left out. Maybe one day I’ll share the missing stanzas. Maybe some of the meaning is best left for interpretation.
Lastly, I want to touch on the title. Haps of Icebergs, Mis — a play on “Hapsburg” and “mishap” and the coldness of icebergs. The things we only see the tip of. What lies beneath?
This piece is not a straightforward telling. It’s not a lesson, not even a clear narrative. But it is a meditation on history, identity, power, and perhaps the absurdity that comes from trying to find order in centuries of disorder.
Thanks for listening. I suppose it isn’t the end. Not yet.
Some songs emerge not with a bang, but with a kind of quiet finality — not loud, not sprawling, but still deeply felt. “Close, what?” might be that kind of song.
At just around a minute and a half, this piece is ominous, minimal, and draped in questions. It offers a hint of closure without ever confirming it. It might be the final piece in this small collection of lyric-based recordings I’ve made. Or maybe not. It feels like it, though.
The song unfolds in short, shadowy stanzas, with a sense that something — something important — is being sought, and maybe even found:
There are times when we must go there to find
There are times when we must go there to find
when we get there we, we know, what we’re there to find
the end
It reads like a riddle — or an answer you didn’t know you were asking for. If there’s an epiphany buried in it, it may dawn gently — or not at all — depending on the listener.
I’ve released nine lyrical songs in this raw, minimalistic style — recorded simply, with nothing but an iPhone, guitar, and my voice. Of those, five to eight may form a short project or album. I haven’t decided whether all nine will be included, or if I’ll revisit them one day in fuller, more studio-crafted versions.
But this version is theoriginal. The first draft. The unsanded edge.
For now, Close, what? feels like a good place to stop — at least for a moment. If it is a closing, it’s not dramatic. It’s just… final. If it isn’t, it’s a doorway. One you didn’t know you passed through.
Sometimes life places us not in the aftermath, or even the beginning, but in the middle — in the unseen moment where things shift but haven’t settled. That’s where this new short song came from.
“Between Light & Dark, Places” is only just over a minute long. It opens with a rhythm of soft, triadic guitar figures — a brief but steady pattern I built out of improvisation, something both calming and quietly unsettled. Then come the words. Sparse, but weighted.
when the darkness fades and the sunlight shades it’s a blackness of none of it
The lyrics repeat — like something unresolved. It’s meant to capture the emotional limbo we often find ourselves in. Not fully healed. Not fully broken. A passenger between the weight of cosmic forces — or, more realistically, the motivations and consequences of other people’s decisions. Their wars. Their actions. Their decisions, & the effect it has on us.
Something In the Nothing
Even in what feels like nothing, there is something. Maybe not a reason, maybe not a plan — but presence, even in shadow, absence. A whisper of weight in a moment of pause. That’s what I wanted this song to live in — the gray, the in-between, the places between light and dark.
In a world increasingly dominated by noise and reaction, quiet reflection becomes an act of resistance. And this piece, small as it is, was my way of pushing back — even if only for a minute.
Some songs don’t offer answers — only questions with echoes. My new song, ‘Non, e‘ drifts in that kind of space.
Built around a minimal progression and a vocal loop, this song leans into something mystic and slow-burning — a meditation on what remains present even in absence.
The lyrics are simple:
in the darkest days there’s time and space
in the realm of none there’s nothing to be done nothing to say in time or space
It circles these lines — not to resolve them, but to let them resonate. Because even on our darkest days, something still exists: time still ticks. Space still stretches. And in that, there’s both grief and possibility.
Parallels with the Universe
The song touches on something more cosmic — how the scaling nature of the universe feels eerily parallel to our emotional lives.
The universe expands. It accelerates. Scientists still ask whether that expansion will go on forever, or whether one day it’ll hit a final wall — entropy exhausted — what I’ve jokingly called before: The Big Brick.
Will there be something beyond that point? Or will it stretch endlessly toward a realm of none — of zero — where nothing more can be done or said?
These are huge questions, yes, but this song doesn’t try to answer them. It just holds them quietly, like a sky on mute.
A Space for the Listener
‘Non, e‘ isn’t loud. It doesn’t build to a drop or a resolution. It’s a slow shimmer. And sometimes that’s what’s most honest — music that gives you space to think, not just something to fill it.
I wrote Ebb and Flow several months ago — before this site even existed, before I had a dedicated space to reflect on what these pieces mean to me, or why I write them.
I released the audio version of the song at that time, but until now it’s been missing something visual to anchor it — and I never wrote about the intentions behind it. So here it is.
This piece focuses on something both personal and wide in scope: the decay of humanity — the kind that shows up in relationships, in society, and in ourselves. It’s satirical at times, a bit biting, but not without purpose. I wanted it to mirror the erosion of meaning and structure we often witness in our modern world, but with a kind of quiet formality.
The title, Ebb and Flow, almost disguises the tone of the lyrics. It suggests balance — a wave rising and falling, like a measured breath. But much of the song is about imbalance: how we fall out of rhythm with each other, how we allow ourselves to crumble when we’re meant to build.
Still, there’s a strange kind of beauty in acknowledging that. Naming the destruction and knowing it doesn’t have to define the whole story.
Here are the lyrics:
Ebb and Flow – Lyrics
Lasting lighted horts of thee Arts to thee that tune Nigh forever go thy you’ll always stow In that raze of city spaze Where for all but so There you’ll sit and dine Wine and wine and whine
Meager pasture parts of thee Nought but glime or calamity I’ll forever know, where you’ll ebb and flow Nor but gaze nor nor but shine Clods and fills the loom For you’ll always be, glucked and not to see
The language here is purposefully odd — poetic, twisted, bent slightly out of joint. Because that’s what it’s about: a distorted reflection of life as it’s often lived, not as it’s meant to be. A -1 to 1, mathematically even, but emotionally at odds.
This piece has always felt a little outside of time to me. I’m glad to finally give it a space on the site, with a visual to go alongside.
Thanks for being here — for flowing along, even through the ebbs.
This new short instrumental piece, Walks of Camino Cliffs, started — like many of mine — with just a name. I was playing around with the word “camino”, which in Spanish means “road” or “walk.” The name stood out because it felt active yet ancient, almost like a quiet echo from a path someone once took long ago.
The phrase “walks of camino cliffs” isn’t traditional — it’s intentionally a bit skewed. But that’s part of how I work. The song came together improvisationally, and the cliffside visuals (you’ll notice a subtle mountain in the art) started to feel like they were guiding the music’s tone — soft, layered, and edged with quiet tension.
A surprising connection to the Camino de Santiago
Interestingly, only after sketching the sound and naming the piece did I realize the deeper tie to something real: the Camino de Santiago, or “Way of St. James,” a famous pilgrimage route through Spain. It’s a historical and spiritual walk that many have taken over the centuries — sometimes for religious reasons, sometimes just to reconnect with life.
While I’m Christian Protestant, and the Camino is often associated with Catholic tradition, I’ve always appreciated the symbolism behind things like this — the idea of traveling for renewal, of walking roads walked long before you, and of cliffs as both borders and invitations.
This song isn’t a literal soundtrack to that pilgrimage — but it’s drawn from the same kind of spirit: walking forward, slowly, with awareness. Finding paths through sound. Standing still at the edge of something old and open.
If that speaks to you, or even just calms you for a moment, then I’m glad I shared it.
As I worked on this piece, it reminded me of another song of mine — Ambulant Funnel Waves — which also explores motion, shifting forces, and symbolic journeys. You can listen to that one here:
There’s something haunting about a room built to dazzle, yet echoing with absence.
“What Lacks of Ball, Room” is a short, down-tempo piece I wrote reflecting on spaces — both literal and emotional — that promise grandeur but deliver disconnection. It draws on the imagery of a ballroom: tapestries, open air, ornamented rooms built for display. But in this room, there’s no music. No dance. No gathering. Just the weight of decoration and the gaze of judgment.
Here are the lyrics:
bright row tapestries front room ball room breeze windowless gazes into hearts nothing but a seat 2 of darts
bright row tapestries front room ball room breeze windowless gazes into hearts nothing but a seat 2 of darts
then one finds the door like a fleet to floor scapes the scopes of room leaves the views that loom
then, bright row tapestry, your no longer in
There’s a feeling of scrutiny without presence in this piece — like the weight of eyes on you, but no one really there. The ballroom, a symbol of performance and elegance, becomes hollow — opulent but empty. “Nothing but a seat 2 of darts” implies critique disguised as comfort — like being offered a place to sit while being subtly pierced.
In the final lines, there’s a quiet break — an escape. The tapestry still exists, but you are no longer in it. The exit is less triumphant than it is essential — pulling away from a place that never truly had what it claimed to hold.
A Song About Absence Dressed as Extravagance
This piece feels especially relevant in a world of highlight reels, where elegance can mask hollowness and rooms (physical or social) seem curated more for appearance than warmth. The song ends in E regular, simple, grounded — a kind of final footstep out of the ornate, and back into something truer.
Thanks for listening — and for sitting in with me.
A song of slow erosion, distant conflict, and nature echoing back
This song came to me slowly, but quickly— hazy, soft-edged, backlit by something glowing just out of reach. I decided to call it Blue Light Mountains.
The image that accompanies it shows a pale blue sun-like light hovering above a distant grey mountain. It feels cold, ancient, almost like it’s watching. And in a way, that’s what the song is too: a watcher’s song. One that observes the slow crumble, the quiet cutting-down, the deep toll of what people do to each other — and to the world they move through.
The tree becomes the witness
Lyrically, this one draws into the ers of mankind — our errors, our ego, our unravelings — as if a tree were singing, personified, not in anger, but in weary recognition. Cut down not just by literal axes, but by the weight of human carelessness. Not always violent on the surface — but hollowing, weakening, draining.
The rhythm is cyclical. It repeats. Like regret. Like seasons. Like memory.
Lyrics – Blue Light Mountains
blue rays cliff line perched in sand oh so nere to hit with land shifting bolds of ers and quell burdens in the window shame in the fell
blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains
(guitar interlude)
dripping droops of axe and stoop yews of windows lax and loop fallen trees of cut and breeze ne’re in the window ne’re in the freeze
blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains blue light mountains
🪵 Wax and wane, cut and breeze
In many ways, this song lives in the same atmosphere as my recent pieces — poetic fragments that build a landscape rather than tell a story. But Blue Light Mountains is maybe more mournful than most. There’s a feeling of entropy beneath the repetition. The sense that something has already fallen, or is about to — and no one stopped it. Maybe no one even noticed.
The line “fallen trees of cut and breeze” sits at the center of that feeling. The tree doesn’t fall in a thunderous crash. It just gives way — softly, finally — and the breeze keeps moving as if nothing happened.
A world we all move through
This isn’t a protest song. It’s more like a moment of still awareness — the kind that sometimes finds you when you’re looking at distant mountains in a fading light, wondering what’s holding it all together.
Maybe the blue light is a kind of soul. Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe it’s just reflection — of our impact, our patterns, and the quiet way nature keeps speaking back.
Thanks for listening, for feeling, and for sitting with these echoes. —Josh
New song, this one is called Flys* will Pharaoh. It runs about 1 minute and 30 seconds—
The lyrics came in pairs, as shown below:
the weather’s fading the sun is shading the sand is falling the tides are calling
fate is speaking roads are creaking barrows narrow tarrows sarrow
now
where you go for what you dare sate will narrow flys will pharaoh
There’s something ancient but soft in it—somewhere between ruin and memory.
The Pharaoh reference isn’t historical; it’s emotional. Or is it? It’s not about the crown—but the weight.
The inheritance of control, of prophecy, of being bound to cycles older than yourself.
The weight of gold. The cost of man’s actions. The burden of consequence passed down like truth & myth, like currency, like sand through generations.
A song about shift and strain
The tones are spare, like the others I’ve shared recently (Middle of the Roadway, Flight Lanes of Morphed Names)—but this one feels more like a slow spin, eyes closed. The sentiment isn’t hopeless, but it does lean toward stillness. Something is fading. Something else is beginning, maybe. Or resisting.
What Flys*, What Follows
The title carries an asterisk—not as a correction, but as a flicker. “Flys” could be wings in motion, could be swarms, could be the small weightless forces that gather in quiet rebellion. There’s a picture with the piece—look close enough and you’ll see something perched, maybe watching. Maybe waiting.
I didn’t write this to name names, but there’s an undercurrent in this one—fighting against the malice of mankind, not with power, but with presence. With witness. The smallest flight against the largest shadow.
A fragment in the same world
Flys will Pharaoh ties into the last few songs—each of them reflecting pieces of a larger emotional weather system. Erosion. Movement. Quiet persistence. The strange stillness of being halfway between ruin and rebirth.
Thanks, as always, for listening, watching, it means a lot. —Josh
